


Lucky

by aban_asaara



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2019-10-08 11:29:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17385656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara
Summary: Whose voice is that again, calling out to him?





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> “You almost died” kiss for [Sasskarian](sasskarian.tumblr.com). :D

He smells ripe tangerines on the breeze, and he has but to turn his head to see the branches bobbing in the wind, heavy with fruit bright orange against green leaves. His mouth waters at the sight. He peers down the corridor and sees nothing but shadows playing on the strapwork tiles of the floor, so he sneaks to the balcony, grips the balustrade with one hand, and stretches the other out. **  
**

_—ris—_

The barest brush of his fingers is enough for the tangerine to snap off its stem. The fruit falls two stories down, ricochets off a wrought-iron bench, and rolls in the grass for a few paces before coming to a stop in a puddle of sunlight.

_Fenris—_

He hears voices coming closer, and his name, and the roar of the sea shattering upon crags and cliffs. The scent of iron tickles his nose. He must be quick, before the slave-hunters catch up to him. He slides one leg over the balustrade, then the other, maneuvers his feet along the too-narrow ledge. Far below he sees the dusty stone tiles of the marketplace, rows upon rows of weeping statues, blood-red banners snapping in the wind and—

“ _Fenris_ ,” a woman says, closer— _too close_ —and as he throws a glance above his shoulder, his grip slips off the balustrade. He falls, head first, for half a heartbeat, before agony rips through him like flames through dry parchment, greedy and all-consuming. “Fenris,” she says again, and he knows that voice but he cannot—place it, and his eyes are wide open but he cannot see a thing. “Fen, stay with me, _please_.”

“Who—” His stomach turns at the white-hot flash of pain that forks through his skull as he tries to sit up. Hands push him back and pin him down into place. Tendrils of magic slither about his head— _inside_ his head—and he swats at the source, but something clasps his wrist in mid-air. Fingers twine with his. “Stop moving if you want me to close up your head,” a man snarls, and _that_ voice he knows at once.

“Anders?” he croaks.

“Ouch, that hurts,” the woman says around a watery laugh. When he opens his eyes this time he sees her face, haloed by a blur of black hair, bright spars of light fanned out around her shape. He reaches up to touch her cheek, but his fingers cannot find her, somehow, until she leans into his touch. Her lips are warm on his palm, and so are her breaths, short and stuttering. She comes into focus as the pain in his head lessens, beautiful and bloodied and battle-worn, blue eyes bright with tears.

“Almost done,” Anders says, fatigue weighing down his words. “How many Hawkes do you see?”

“Just the one,” Fenris hears himself slur in reply, “thank the Maker.”

Hawke half-laughs, half-sobs at that. He brushes the tears that fall off her lashes with his thumb. “Don’t do that again,” she says before closing the distance between their mouths. She is—uncharacteristically gentle: she kisses him slow and sweet, and he can taste the salt of her tears on her lips, a softer echo of the tang of blood and brine that the sea wind carries to them.

“Don’t do what again?” The fight is coming back to him in bits and pieces, much like the tessellated pieces of an unsolved jigsaw puzzle.

“Stop a Tal-Vashoth warhammer with your head,” she replies, helping him sit up. His gaze follows hers to the patch of wet sand, dyed red with his blood. “It’s a nice head you’ve got, you know.”

Anders pulls himself to his feet and wipes the sand off his coat. “And a damned hard one at that. Consider yourself lucky.”

Fenris looks back at Hawke as she tucks sticky strands of hair behind his ears and brushes the grains of sand off his face with her knuckles. He smiles. “That I am.”

“Flatterer,” she says between their lips, grinning, before kissing him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://aban-asaara.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
